


Beautifully Complicated

by ScarletDeva



Series: DracoHermione drabble pile [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Sappy, drabble backlog, super sappy sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletDeva/pseuds/ScarletDeva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They watch each other and they see clearer than most. A two part drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to copy over what's hanging out at my ffnet account and is finished. So here we go.

Beautiful.

It's a word reserved for women on the pages of the Witch Weekly and hauntingly pure white unicorns.

It is a word too often used as incentive in a game I could no more play than Harry could skip through the world with innocence in his eyes or Ron could toss his grandfather's chess set into the flames.

I am giving it back the solid shades and sharp angles that used to sustain it.

I am using it to describe Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy is beautiful. Silver eyes shadowed and simmering disdain and reveal and speak to me in a language that is entirely foreign when our gazes chance to meet. I fear those chancy moments, run from them and wait. I wait till butterfly wings rub against my skin and tiny, fizzy bubbles swarm my throat and then I look up. Freeze frame. The opaque molten metal of his irises hardens to granite and I bang against the chiseled rock. The sound echoes. He smiles. Beautiful. Hateful, cold, impossible, hard, magnetic, fiery. Beautiful.

The potion we're assigned to do is all those things. Because it's clear and it mirrors his eyes. I was never a religious person, never enough sense in the books or the prayer or the ephemeral wisp of divinity but I can pray when our gazes meet in the surface of the liquid in my cauldron. I pray for the moment to end. I pray for it to stretch out into infinity, to rubber-band so that when it snaps, it inverts, bringing me back to the beginning. 

Our hands touch sometimes. His are cold and dry and mine are just a bit warmer, just a bit moist with nerves and concentration and a fearful sort of desire that must seep from my pores to decode on his skin. His skin is soft. Satin or velvet maybe and maybe just the texture of swan down. He is all contradictions, impenetrable eyes, irresistible skin. Beautiful.

My cousin Riana once told me that childhood goes the way of ice cream. They both melt away. She was right. My childhood is melting under the accidental brushes of our fingers. One day I think I am going take that puddle, pour it into the form of the woman I aim to be and freeze it into place. Someday might be soon. Because Draco Malfoy is beautiful.


	2. Complicated

Complicated.

I shouldn't be thinking about what that word means. I shouldn't be thinking about how it fits Hermione Granger.

But I am.

And she is.

I used to think she was all contained in her dirty blood swimming with words that she absorbed from swallowing book after book, adorned by the unkempt hair the color of mud and hideous huge teeth.

It was the simplicity of a black and white world. That world is gone, leaving me awash in shades of grey that are akin to the ones I catch swirling in my eyes as I catch my reflection wavering in the translucent surface of our potion. Chromes of grey. Black and white was easier.

But she's complicated.

She's as complicated as the sensations that encroach upon me as her hands brush against mine. Warm hands. Moist. And I can't help but wonder that if I can capture them, turn them over, follow the lines of her palms with my fingertip, I can learn the taste of her edges, edges shadowed in simplicity.

She is a Gryffindor. That should make it easy. Red and gold. Fools rushing in. Quixotic stands. Simple and stupid. But she isn't any of that. She is marked by her patient smile and her even words and when she is done, her reason trumps all other cards. How like a Slytherin, I think sometimes and wonder what she'd say if she knew why I smile. I like her complexity.

She's a creature of reason. But that's a lie. A lie perpetuated by her concise answers, raised hand, neatly printed script. A model of perfection hiding passion. It's a veneer broken by her woodland brown eyes, eyes the color of living trees. Our eyes meet sometimes too and I can see the flame of life within them. It is not just mundane trees they remind me of. No, she makes me think of trees that house dryads, forever innocent of sin, proud to bare themselves to the world. She isn't innocent though. Not pure and saintly. It is just that she cannot sin, for in her the sins of my world are virtues. The sins of any world.

It is a gentle sin I wish to commit. A sin that she can purge and yet as I let my eyes meet hers I let the moments linger and end, collecting them in a dark vault where all my unused moments stay, moments devoid of life, moments full of regret. My father once said regret is a refuge for the weak. A sanctuary of martyrs. I wish to taste the edges of her complexity, the lines of her passion tempered with reason and inflamed by it as well. I wish into the air, the same air she infuses with the subtle scent of lilacs, the swish of the cascade of thick curls akin to branches, living branches, and I breathe in the air like she exhales passion. So when my gaze touches hers again, I know some day I may cast off my regrets and explore her layers. And as my hand once again brushes against hers, I realize that some day may be soon. Because Hermione Granger is complicated.


End file.
